


Running Away

by Scarshavestories



Series: Drarropoly [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Frotting, Getting Back Together, Heartbreak, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Naked Antics, Not Epilogue Compliant, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Reconciliation, mild panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21526399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarshavestories/pseuds/Scarshavestories
Summary: Five years ago, Draco’s heart was broken, and he did what Malfoys do best: he ran. But you can only run for so long, and Harry Potter is about to run straight back into Draco’s life, whether he likes it or not.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Drarropoly [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560382
Comments: 15
Kudos: 240
Collections: Drarropoly 2.0 - A Drarry Game/Fest





	Running Away

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Drarropoly game!  
> Massive thank you to Etalice and Andithiel for betaing and encouraging me with this fic, they’re both incredible, check their work out!  
> And that you to the game mods for organising this fun game!!!  
> Prompt in the end notes 😁

Draco slams the newspaper shut so violently that the corner rips. He swears, haphazardly chucking it back on the coffee table, then glances around to check he hasn’t drawn attention to himself. 

Wizarding places make his skin crawl with discomfort. He hates the risk of seeing the man who tore his heart out, and people calling him a filthy piece of scum, which is exactly how Mr Snozzbomble, the charming client he’s meeting, described him the last time they saw each other. And of course he’s bloody late. 

The Leaky is unusually empty for a Saturday lunchtime. Draco can guess why - the headline is still screaming for his attention on the front of the Prophet, _“Harry Potter: the Boy who Lived to RUN (the Marathon!!!)”_

The story has somehow filled every. single. page. of the edition, from the best apparition points along the route through Muggle London, to the charity Potter has chosen for sponsorship. Those parts, at least, are relatively benign and don’t make Draco’s head want to explode, unlike the countless images of Potter in training. Pages and pages of the imbecile in far too tight athletic wear, stretching in ways that can’t possibly be beneficial for running. It’s too much. 

With nothing to distract him, Draco drums his fingers against the sofa arm and desperately tries not to dwell on the images of that muscular body, both in the pictures and the memories he’s spent the last half a decade struggling to repress. 

The war had just finished, and it had seemed like the dawn of a new world. The Ministry was in the process of being completely overhauled, while they simultaneously rounded up the remaining Death Eaters to put on trial, and rebuilt all the places that had suffered at the hands of the awful Dark regime. Looking back, it’s hard for Draco to explain the way he felt, back then. He’d just been acquitted of all crimes, and he felt like he’d been set free from everything; his past, his reputation, his parents’ beliefs. 

Potter had sought him out; he’d invited Draco to meet in this very pub, where he handed back the wand he’d used to kill Voldemort, as if it would still work for Draco, and he belatedly begged Draco to forgive him for slashing him to pieces, claiming it had been an accident rather than attempted murder. 

For the first time, Potter had spoken to Draco like he was an equal, and they talked for hours about everything and anything, but as the night drew on and their blood alcohol content rose, their conversation strayed back to the apologies. Draco told Potter he knew now that the beliefs he’d held and the things he’d said were wrong, and that he couldn’t be more sorry. Potter stuck out his hand for Draco to shake, and their hands stayed held together once it was done, their eyes locked, and the blood roaring in Draco’s ears. 

After long moments, Potter whispered, “did… did I leave scars?” 

In his drunken state, Draco’s mind somehow thought that the best way to respond to this would be unbuttoning his Muggle shirt and peeling it back to reveal his chest, right there in the middle of the crowded pub. Potter openly stared at the crisscrossing marks that ran across his torso for an agonising minute, before his fingers stretched out seemingly of their own accord, his featherlight touch running lines across Draco’s skin, making Draco gasp in shock and unexpected pleasure. 

Draco managed to keep it together, despite being more turned on than he’d ever previously experienced until Potter reached his nipple. The roughness of his fingers coupled with the softness of his caress was too much, and Draco let out a low, breathy moan which caught Potter’s attention. He looked up, and it was as if he was seeing Draco for the first time. Starting, he pulled his hand away, the most gorgeous flush rising on his cheeks. 

Five minutes later, Potter’s lips were crashing into Draco’s as he pressed him up against the door of a Leaky guest bedroom and mercilessly rutted against him, his hands wandering everywhere, and his body as hot as it was hard. 

The following months passed in a blur of secret rendezvous, passionate embraces, and messy, naked exploration of each other’s bodies. It was every one of Draco’s teenage desires, his wet dreams, and his wank fantasies, all rolled into one. With every heated touch and every ecstatic climax, Draco was pulled further into an abyss of lust for Potter’s body, and with every gentle word, chaste kiss, intense gaze, and goofy smile, he fell deeper in love with the man he had once tried so hard to hate. 

It would have been a fairy tale ending, except fairy tales aren’t real, and even in fiction you have to be a beautiful princess to marry a handsome hero like Potter. Draco might be a queen, but he knows his role: villain, bad guy, Death Eater - the one who ends up dead or humiliated. 

In this case, Potter did at least spare Draco’s life and merely chose to make a fool out of him. 

While Draco had known what he wanted, and that it was Harry above all else, the entire thing was nothing more than an experiment for the man Draco had idiotically trusted with his heart - not that he’d had much choice when Potter had so stealthily stolen it. 

Exactly four months, two weeks and one day after they’d collided together and begun whatever it had been, Draco opened the Daily Prophet and felt the bottom fall straight out of his universe. 

That was the day he learnt that nothing would ever really change. He would always be Draco Malfoy, and Harry would always be Harry Potter. They simply weren’t the same _sort_ , and their futures would be drastically different, too. Potter was moving in with his childhood sweetheart, Ginny Weasley, and the newspaper was taking bets on how soon they’d be engaged, expecting, and even what they’d name their children. 

Draco had cast _Incendio_ at the blasted paper and immediately fled to his family’s estate in France, where he allowed his delusional mother to dust him off and pretend he hadn’t been entirely crushed by both the war and heartbreak. 

The owls were daily, at first, but Draco refused to read them. There were no words that Potter could say that would make it OK that he had been a dirty little secret, a mistress and a _fool._ Eventually, they became weekly, then monthly, and then they stopped coming at all. In a way, it was a relief, though the underlying sting of having been forgotten cut like a knife.

Life in France was not unpleasant; his mother and her army of house elves kept him in expensive clothing, gourmet food and fine wine, the locals were friendly, and the surrounding vineyards were picturesque. Deep down, though, Draco knew he was too young to be hiding out in a sleepy village in rural Champagne - he should be _drinking_ Champagne and making something of himself, rather than remaining forced into exile, too afraid of his fragile feelings to seize the autonomy he’d spent so long craving. 

To his shame, it had taken Draco two full years to return to Britain. As soon as he was back on home soil, though, it struck him how much he had missed it here. There was just something about it, it was all so familiar, he felt like he understood this country in a way he simply couldn’t any other; it was like meeting up with an old friend and remembering all of the things you used to love about their company. 

That said, it was a different nation to the one he had left. The dust had settled from the war, and it seemed everyone had fallen into a routine that washed away the hopeful air of possibility that had been there previously. 

Draco now has a job at a company that consults on potion ingredient imports, which both suits his skillset and allows him to avoid the vast majority of the Wizarding World. He apparates or takes the Floo directly into the various shops or potion production facilities, and he lives the rest of his life peacefully in Muggle London, which suits him perfectly. His life is calm, simple and ordered, with limited chance of seeing a certain mop of messy hair that would no doubt send him into a tailspin, even all these years later. 

Today, however, Mr Snozzbomble has insisted they meet in a public place as he ‘does not trust Death Eaters,’ and at an inconvenient time, just to spite a Malfoy. 

Because Draco loves spending his Saturday morning waiting for a work client who is, naturally, already 43 minutes late and counting. 

Draco tries to catch the attention of the person working the bar, who he vaguely recognises as a Hufflepuff from school. She smiles when she notices his signal and bustles over, apparently either content to let the horrific things he doubtless said to her in the past stay forgotten, or just highly dedicated to giving good customer service. He hopes it’s the former. 

She takes his order cheerfully and wanders off, tapping her finger against a little box that flashes different colours as she prods it. 

His coffee takes a ridiculously long time to come, given that the place is almost empty. The Hufflepuff who might be called Helen? Or Hebe? has only just placed it in front of him with a slightly conspiratorial smile when Mr Snozzbomble finally shows up. 

Most of Draco’s work meetings are done and dusted within 45 minutes. Sadly, Mr Snozzbomble takes hours scrutinising _everything,_ certain that Draco is hiding something nefarious. It’s most tiresome, and two hours into the meeting, Draco’s tummy is rumbling and his head is aching. 

In a rare streak of humanity, or perhaps because Draco is paying, Mr Snozzbomble decides they’re getting lunch, which means at least Draco won’t die of starvation while the meeting drags on for all of eternity. 

A little while after they finish eating (which Draco only manages because his hunger overrides his absolute disgust at the way Mr Snozzbomble eats), the Leaky begins to slowly fill with both people and an increasingly loud buzz of chatter. 

“Incredible man, just incredible, what a time!” 

“How many times did you spot him?”

“Oh, those _legs_ , wouldn’t you kill to touch those _legs_?” 

Draco grits his teeth and desperately tries to block out all the voices around him, including Mr Snozzbomble’s dreary tones. It doesn’t work very well. 

Thankfully, it seems Mr Snozzbomble is equally unimpressed by the mounting crowds; he quite quickly wraps their meeting up, crisply tells Draco to make sure he makes no errors, and hastily takes his leave. 

Draco blows out a sigh of relief and gathers his belongings together. Finally, he can escape the Potter-related gossip and head back to the calm serenity of his nice little quiet house in Muggle suburbia. 

When he approaches the bar to give Hufflepuff the details of the company Gringotts account to cover the food and drinks, she firstly ignores him for longer than can be considered accidental, and then acts entirely bizarrely when he finally catches her attention.

“You’re leaving? Now?” She asks, her eyes flicking agitatedly towards the door, then back to her little tapping box. 

“That is my intention, yes. I assume that’s allowed?” His sharp tone isn’t deliberate, but Draco’s tiredness makes him impatient and irritable. 

She nods, scrunching up her face a little as she replies, “Yes, yes, completely allowed. It’s just… you haven’t had any dessert! We’ve got a wonderful new range of puddings, can’t I tempt you to a slice of treacle tart, or perhaps some spotted dick?” 

Draco raises his eyebrows at her. “I prefer my dicks unblemished, thank you, and no, I’d just like to settle the bill, please.” 

“Right. Yes. Yes. Gringotts, is it?” Her attention is back on the tapping box, her words distracted as she moves aimlessly around the bar. 

A few seconds later, she locates her Gringotts link parchment and allows Draco to give the bank details, if painfully slowly. 

“Is that everything?” he asks once the final letter has been written. 

She gives a half shrug, half nod, and somewhat dejectedly agrees that “yes, that’s everything. Thank you. Have a nice afternoon.” 

He smiles, says “you too” and _finally_ makes his way towards the exit, hoping Charing Cross Road won’t be too hectic today. 

As Draco reaches for the door handle, it swings open, and a distinctly recognisable Yorkshire accent fills his ears. 

“...sure it’s him. Hannah’s trying to stall him but he’s leav—”

The words die on Neville Longbottom’s tongue as he turns back from talking to someone behind him and comes face to face with Draco. 

Draco nods a polite hello and makes to step around him towards the door. Longbottom takes the hint, a look of surprise written across his face, and that’s when Draco sees him. 

Standing there in the doorway is none other than Harry James Potter. 

Draco’s memories and the photos didn’t do him justice, or maybe all that running has paid off because he’s _stunning_. It’s devastating how intoxicatingly breathtaking the bastard looks. He’s still wearing his athletic kit, every muscular line of his figure on display, sweat curling the ends of his hair in a way that only Potter could make sexy. Draco feels his cheeks grow warm, and a choking lump of hurt lodges itself in his throat. 

Draco tries his best to avoid looking at his face. He doesn’t think he has the strength to look into the eyes of the man who still has his heart lying crushed under his shoe. He attempts to manoeuvre his way out of the door with his face turned down, but Potter remains fixed in place, blocking the exit. Apparently, he hasn’t hurt Draco enough already. 

Eventually, Draco raises his head. Potter’s expression surprises him. Where he’d expected a gloating, mocking smirk, he sees desperation and begging. 

“Please, Draco,” Potter whispers, and hearing his name tumble from those lips again is just about enough to break Draco. He turns his face away, frantically willing his ridiculous tears not to fall and make him look even more pathetic. 

Taking a step backwards, Draco tries to force his brain to function through the blinding whirlwind of panic that’s rapidly filling every corner of his mind. Escape. He has to escape. Now. Right now. Not the door. Other exits… Floo. The Floo. 

Draco spins on his heel, the singular goal of escaping his one weapon against the fog of emotion that has turned the inside of his head to Gobstone gunk. 

A hand wraps around his forearm, and Draco is stuck, unable to move, unable to reach the Floo and unable to continue to function. He vaguely attempts to pull his arm free, before he surrenders to the hand, surrenders to the onslaught of feelings that rise up and try to bury him alive, now that his one defence has been destroyed. 

Draco doesn’t know where to look. His brain won’t work, the panic has taken over, and now only fragments of thoughts are able to battle their way through the overpowering emotions. He closes his eyes, shutting out the rest of the world so he can pretend he isn’t about to collapse from the force of it all. 

And then Potter speaks, and try as he might, Draco can’t shut that voice out. 

“Draco, just listen to me for a second. Just one second, and then you can go back to your life and I’ll never try to talk to you again, OK?” He doesn’t wait for confirmation before he continues, his hand still firm on Draco’s arm. 

“Me and Ginny, we did live together—” Draco tries to think of a way, _any_ way, to stop him from hearing, but his mind is still thick with panic and he can’t make it function.

“—but it wasn’t like that. We weren’t together, not then. Not now.” The vice-like grip loosens, but Draco stays stock still, unable to stop listening. “The Prophet didn’t say we also lived with Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, George… and a few others came and went.” 

Draco realises he’s held his breath for the entire speech. He slowly lets the air escape his lungs, and opens his eyes a fraction, only to find himself staring directly into the exact shade of green that has haunted his dreams for as long as he can remember. He can’t look away, though. 

“I never cheated on you, Draco.” The words are soft and gentle, like a hot, sweet cup of tea on a cold morning. 

Harry’s hand falls away from Draco’s arm, and he pulls himself back up to full height. “I just needed you to know that. I’m sure you’ve moved on, and I understand that, but I needed you to know that I could never…” Harry’s words tail off, and he nods once. “Yeah. OK. I’ve said my piece. You don’t feel the same. That’s… I’ll—I’ll go now.” 

He strides away, shoving his fingers underneath those glasses that would be hideous on anyone else but somehow just make him look more adorably _Harry_ , and Draco is left standing in spell-shock, the words and their meaning only just beginning to make sense to his overwhelmed brain. 

“He...” It falls out of Draco’s mouth unbidden, said to no one in particular, but he can’t seem to help himself from stumbling over words as he tries to comprehend them. “He _didn’t…_ he wasn’t… I thought… he—he said _feel_. ‘You don’t _feel._ ’Didn’t he? I…” 

“Yes, Draco, he said feel.” It’s Hufflepuff bartender - Hannah. She’s leaning against Longbottom, giving Draco an encouraging, warm smile. 

“He likes me back.” The intense emotions are still filling Draco’s mind like an orchestra fills a concert hall, and he’s struggling to make sense of all that is happening through the fight between hope and his self-preserving instincts. 

“You need to tell him how you feel, Draco.” Hannah is speaking gently and kindly, and somehow her words make it through the noise. 

“But, he left, I— I can’t.” 

“He’ll be at his house. You know the address,” Longbottom supplies, clapping him on the shoulder and pointing towards the Floo. 

“But… what about the wards?” Draco asks, his thoughts beginning to settle as a plan forms. 

“They’re open for you. They were always open for you.” There’s something sad and wistful in Longbottom’s tone, but Draco ignores it. With a wave of thanks, he rushes to the Floo, grabs some powder, shouts the address he could never forget into the flames, and lets them whirl him away. 

When Draco arrives at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, he immediately worries that Longbottom was wrong. Harry is nowhere to be seen. But Draco has no clue where else he could be, so he tentatively begins to walk through the house, his feet easily remembering the layout as he searches. 

He’s walking up the stairs when he hears it, the rush of water mixing with something else, something that sounds suspiciously like sobbing. Draco takes the stairs two at a time, racing towards Harry, a compulsion to stop that sobbing pumping through his veins. 

Draco pauses outside the bathroom, suddenly unsure whether he can barge his way into the room. But then Harry lets out a strangled cry, and it’s all Draco needs to make up his mind. 

As soon as Draco opens the door, Harry goes silent, and a second later, the shower turns off. “Hello?” Harry’s voice is raw and rough, even in the echo of the bathroom. 

“Harry. It’s me.” Draco can’t help the shaking in his own voice. 

There’s a clatter, and Harry’s head appears around the shower curtain, his face red and blotchy from tears. He looks scared and small, but there’s at least a touch of hope there, too. 

Draco steps forward and reaches out to run a hand through Harry’s hair, which somehow looks even more alluring when soaking wet than it does dry. 

“I’m sorry I believed _the Prophet_ ,” he says, bringing his hand down to cup Harry’s face. 

Harry huffs. “It always was their goal to ruin my life. They finally achieved it.” His piercing eyes look straight at Draco, questioning, vulnerable, and unyielding. “You’re here. In my bathroom,” he says, his lips quirking into a smirk, but it’s underlined with something else, something guarded and fearful. 

“I am,” Draco replies. The reality of what he’s just done dawns on him, and he pulls his hand away, taking a step back. “That’s not OK, is it? I should have knocked, at least. Or waited. I should have waited. I’ll… I’ll do that.” 

He begins to turn, but Harry stops him, crying, “No!” 

His face has fallen in horror, his eyes are wild and his tone desperately urgent. “I don’t understand. You make no sense to me. Do you know that, Draco? No sense.” 

Draco awkwardly plonks himself down on the loo seat, unsure how to respond. 

“It’s just,” Harry continues, “I’ve been _famously_ single and openly bisexual for years now, and you never tried, not _once_ ,” each word is coming out faster and more ragged than the last, “and then, you finally let me say my piece, and suddenly you’re standing in my bathroom, and the conversation I’ve played over in my head a thousand times is about to happen while I’m shivering, wet and naked, and I don’t even know what you’re here to say.” 

Draco sighs. In for a knut, in for a Galleon. He deliberately doesn’t look up from the fluffy blue bathmat as he mumbles his confession. “I didn’t know. I ran away and avoided anything Potter related. I was too much of a coward to read about your happily ever after, too scared of how much it would hurt to think about you because,” Draco takes a deep breath and looks up into piercing green eyes, “I liked you too much.” 

Harry laughs. It’s a harsh sound with little humour behind it, his face full of disbelief and bitterness, but there’s softness there too as he reaches his hand out towards Draco.

“Come here,” he says, and Draco is powerless to do anything but stand and follow orders. 

Harry brushes Draco’s hair back and holds their faces close together, whispering, “if we’re going to do this, it has to be everything, alright? It can’t just be fucking, I want a relationship, I want all of you, OK?” 

Draco melts at the words, his stomach filling with giddy butterflies and his heart growing to the size of his entire chest. “Yes, I want that, I want you.” 

And their lips are crashing together, the weight of the lost time making their lips move forcefully, their teeth clashing and hands gripping anywhere they can reach as if they’re clinging on for their lives. 

They only come apart when the edge of the bathtub becomes too cumbersome a barrier for them to stand. Harry helps Draco clamber inside, still fully clothed. Draco takes a second to appraise Harry’s body, the tiny remaining water droplets glistening on his perfect skin, defining those gorgeous muscles and making Draco want to lick every tantalising inch. 

“Shivering, wet and naked is a good look on you,” he comments, watching the way Harry lights up with that familiar _game on_ expression. The sight of it sends excitement and anticipation pulsing through Draco’s veins. 

Draco catches a glint of mischief in Harry’s eyes, and it’s all the warning he gets before he too is stripped bare, his clothes wandlessly and wordlessly disappeared, the show-off. 

Draco squeals in surprise, and Harry looks a touch shocked at his own actions. “Shit, sorry. I got a bit um, ahead of myself. Is… was that OK?” he asks, his tone concerned. 

“Yes, I’m hoping you’ve not entirely lost my favourite socks, but honestly even if you have, you’re _probably_ worth it. Maybe,” he teases, feeling the weight of Harry’s hungry eyes as they roam his body, his skin simmering wherever they prowl. 

“Maybe?” Harry’s voice is full of mock indignation, and it’s everything Draco has missed. “I’ll show you worth it.” Harry surges forwards to kiss him, his strong arms wrapping around Draco’s back, and suddenly he’s surrounded by Harry, engulfed by the warmth and scent and _feel_ of him, and it almost overloads Draco’s senses, he doesn’t know where to focus. His whole body is on fire but the flames are welcome, they’re life, and they’re love, and they’re _Harry_. 

Their kisses are frantic, their lips and tongues sliding messily together, neither of them able to hold back enough to make it coordinated and smooth; it’s as if they’re trying to pour everything they’re unable to say with words into the kiss. 

Draco bites at Harry’s bottom lip, eliciting a soft moan that goes straight to his already achingly hard cock. He does it again, tugging his hands gently through the flyaway hair that was always his kryptonite. 

Harry’s hands make their way down Draco’s back until they rest just above his arse, the pads of his thumbs rubbing circles into Draco’s skin. “Can I?” He pants, his lips still only a breath away from Draco’s. 

Draco is too turned on by the onslaught of sensations to form words, so instead, he uses his own hands to place Harry’s directly where he needs them. Harry chuckles, “can’t get much clearer than thaaahhh,” his quip becomes a gasp as Draco rolls his hips and their cocks meet. “Fuck, Draco.” 

The words destroy the last part of restraint that Draco had, they expel the last lingering doubt that he was holding onto, and they’re moving frantically against each other, their bodies sliding awkwardly as they both seek the friction they so desperately need. 

It feels like they never stopped doing this, it’s so natural. Draco’s body is working of its own accord, every single one of his cells is singing and celebrating the incredible euphoric feeling of having Harry close and touching him like this. 

Draco reaches down between them and hovers his hand above their cocks. When Harry looks down, he groans “Yes, Draco, do it,” and Draco needs no further encouragement before he begins to run his fingers up and down their lengths. His pace quickens dramatically when his hand suddenly slides more easily, the smug twinkle in Harry’s eye proof that the wanker has just performed more impressive magic to conjure lube. 

The pleasure is building in Draco’s spine, each stroke intensifying the sparks that ignite his skin everywhere he’s touching Harry, and it seems he’s having the same effect back because Harry is moaning, saying “ahhaaahh” and “Draco” and “ahhhh…”

...And “No, Draco, stop!” 

Draco freezes, along with every drop of blood in his veins. His heart is still pounding out of his chest, but it’s in panic, not arousal, now. He has no idea what he did wrong or how to make it better.

“Fuuuucking craaaamp,” Harry groans, tipping his head back and clutching his thigh. Draco is completely and utterly wrong-footed; he has no clue what is going on until Harry continues, “you couldn’t have shown up _before_ my friends reached step 53 of the Ten-Step Plan to Heal Harry’s Heartbreak: run a fucking marathon?”

Draco bursts out laughing: in relief, in surprise and in amusement at Harry’s pain. “Shouldn’t there only be 10 steps in a ten-step plan?” 

“Yeah, well,” Harry grumbles, “the first ten didn’t work, did they? And Hermione’s not one to give up when she gets an idea in her head.” 

Draco can’t stop laughing, he thinks the intensity of all the emotions he’s felt in the last hour have made him somewhat hysterical, but he hooks his arms under Harry’s nonetheless and stutters out a breathless, “I want to be sorry, I really do, but I enjoy seeing you suffer too much.” 

Harry shoves his shoulder. 

“Do you at least have muscle repair potions?” Draco asks through a giggle. 

“Why, are you offering to rub it in?” Harry replies, significantly less amused by the situation than Draco is. 

Draco raises his eyebrows. “Would I like to knead my hands into the muscles of a ridiculously fit bloke who I happen to be very much into?” He pretends to think about it. “Nah, I think I’ll pass on that, thank you,” he says, deadpan. “Of course I bloody will, you gorgeous moron.” 

“Haha, hilarious. I’ll do it myself if you’re going to act like that,” Harry retorts, but he doesn’t object when Draco leads him into his bedroom, gently lies him down on the bed, summons the potion and worships Harry’s body with it beneath his fingertips. 

It might not be quite what Draco envisioned when he pictured being with Harry again, but that doesn’t matter. He has Harry pinned beneath him, and Harry wants him to be there with him, he wants Draco like Draco wants him, and that’s the incredible, joyful and unbelievably amazing. And there will be plenty of time for sex later, they have the rest of their lives, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! The prompt was: Harry and Draco come across each other after years apart. They did not end mutually. They have to clear the misunderstandings. Choose either 1) they resolve the misunderstandings and get back together -OR- 2) they do not resolve their issues/miscommunications but still hook up.


End file.
